


no doubt, no fear

by Iolaire02



Series: doubtful hearts and sly minds [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Death, F/M, Gen, Historical Inaccuracy, Historical References, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:35:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25283983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iolaire02/pseuds/Iolaire02
Summary: There is a story behind this girl's loyalty.
Relationships: Godric Gryffindor & Helga Hufflepuff
Series: doubtful hearts and sly minds [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1831762
Kudos: 5





	no doubt, no fear

**Author's Note:**

> Jawhar ibn Abdallah was at one point a real person, and I did my best to keep his backstory accurate; as for the personality I gave him, there is really no saying if it is in any way correct, but I'm thinking it's probably not.
> 
> I know nothing about the Islamic religion, so if the little bits of information I included - mostly regarding their views about certain topics - are incorrect in this time period, I apologise.
> 
> Given the time period, names of places may be inaccurate.
> 
> I didn't tag for anything really bad, but I did put the warnings in the end notes, which you may partake of at your own discretion.

Hildimar gives birth to a child. Jawhar ibn Abdallah cannot help the disappointment that courses through him when he learns that he has fathered a daughter. He is a Fatimid general, a freedman. He has helped conquer Egypt, is viceroy until al-Mu’izz li-Din Allah finally arrives, and yet his wife has given him a daughter. He supposes he should not be surprised; his wife was born of a northern Belgae tribe in Gaul, and she is the daughter of a matriarchal line. This knowledge does not diffuse his fury. “You should have been born a boy,” he tells Helga when she is old enough to understand his discontent, “for I cannot love a daughter as I could have loved a son.”

* * *

Helga grows up under the love and devotion of her increasingly sick mother. She grows up under the thumb of a father who cannot stand to look at her most days, even now that he has retired out of the public eye. She has no siblings, and while she adores her mother, Helga cannot help feeling bitter that the woman who gave birth to her has no strength left to gift her a sibling. She knows, deep down, that her mother would not wish to subject another child to her father’s unkind gaze, but she wishes with everything inside her that there was someone by her side to share the burden of inadequacy.

She grows older and realizes that to subject another child to her father now that her mother no longer serves as a buffer would be cruel. She strains against the chains she was born into, thinks about the pride her father takes from being a freedman, and wishes she could fight her way to freedom.

She first discovers her magic when she is tripping down the steps of her father’s living quarters. She goes flying through the air, getting closer and closer to the ground, and she panics; if she rips her tunic, or dirties her skin against the ground, her father will be furious. And she stops falling. Of course, Helga thinks that her sudden stop in midair is just luck, and thinks nothing of it. She is too young to understand the implications, and there is no one around to disabuse her of the notion that she is a lucky child.

The second time it happens, Helga is reaching for a pot of honey for her bread. The sweetener is on the top shelf, and she is short enough that her fingertips only brush against it when she pushes herself up on her toes. She wiggles her hand, bumping the jar forward bit by bit. It falls off the shelf, and she cannot catch it, though she reaches out for it. The honey jar slips through her fingers, and she shrieks. And the ceramic hovers an inch above the stone floor, waiting for her to pick it up.

After that, Helga tries to stop things from falling, tries to summon things to her, tries to ignite light in the palm of her hand. She cannot do it half the time, and the other half tends to result in happenings she did not intend. She stops things from falling, and they shoot back up and crash against the ceiling, sending shards down around her to slide sharp and deep against her arms. She summons things, and they fly toward her at a speed too quick for her to follow, and then she spends the rest of the day trying to catch them. She calls light into her palm, and it turns into fire, and spreads across her body; it does not hurt her, but she sees the effect the heat of the flames has on her surroundings.

She is not careful. It does not occur to her that she should try to hide her abilities. She is in the courtyard one day, having finally mastered summoning and halting, and she lies on the ground, using her magic to throw a piece of papyrus into the air and catch it before it flutters to the ground. One of her father’s servants catches her. Ata is only a few years older than Helga, but he sees her practicing magic, and approaches, saying “You should not do that where everyone can see. You know that magic is forbidden. Come, my mother will teach you.” Helga follows him, and they slip through the trees that line her father’s home, making their way to the servants’ quarters. 

“Mother,” Ata calls, “where are you?”

“Kitchen, Ata,” Farida replies. “I am making bread, what do you need?”

It is Helga who answers. “Ata found me practicing magic. He said that it is forbidden, but that you could teach me?”

“Ata,” Farida hisses, her eyes wider than normal, “I told you not to say anything. You know how the Caliphate feels about magic. It is forbidden, and that is without bringing the specialties into it. Even hexes are a death warrant, and they are some of the simplest magics. Simply speaking of sihr is dangerous, and that is without actually performing it. And you are bringing me the _daughter_ of Jawhar, the daughter of our master, to learn magic?”

“Mother, Helga is magic, just as you are. Would you truly leave her to her own devices so that the next person who finds her condemns her to death because you are _afraid_?” Ata reasons, and Farida looks at Helga, looks at a child with golden hair and tanned skin, who already stands out amongst the Arabs who occupy the entire country, who is motherless and unloved, and she softens.

“Of course not,” she says quietly. “I could never send a child to such a fate. Come, Helga, and let me teach you magic.”

Helga learns much under Farida’s tutelage. The woman teaches her many branches of magic, insisting that prowess in Defensive and Healing magics does not mean that Helga should not know Runes or Charms or Potions; Farida frowns fiercely each time Helga lights something on fire instead of levitating it. “Know who you are, Helga,” she says. “Do not doubt your abilities, and do not fear them. Do not be afraid of a flame you have created. Use it to fight; make your fire do as you command, for Heka has given you an incredible gift.”

Farida, Helga learns, is gifted with Sigils, able to turn her words and Runes into powerful spells. When Farida first attempts to teach Helga to use Sigils, she etches the hieroglyph for town into a stone, and with an uncomfortable squeezing sensation, she and Helga appear in an alley near the town square. “We must walk back, Helga,” Farida tells her. “I must pick up some food from the vendors. Ata will be arriving home soon, and he will be hungry.”

“Why can we not return the same way we arrived? Can you not summon food, or make it with a simple Rune, Farida?”

Farida stops walking to look at Helga seriously. “Just because I have been given the power to do so does not mean I should. To summon food would be to steal it, Helga. And we must walk back because I know my limits; there is no world in which I could use the same means to return home as to come here, unless I walked both ways.” Helga mulls over Farida’s words in silence, following in her footsteps as she collects jars of figs and grain and barley.

“Helga,” Farida says gently, when they arrive back at the servants’ quarters, “you must have care of how you speak. You know that speaking of sihr is dangerous. It is foolish to mention it when we are surrounded by people, just as it is unwise to practice it where others can see. You never know who may be listening, nor do you know if anyone is watching. Remember that our people fear us, though we are only nameless, faceless nightmares to them.”

Helga remembers Farida’s warning when she is found, barely a year later, by her father. She is not doing anything harmful, is only bringing a lotus to full bloom before letting it wilt, but he sees her. He sees the flower bloom again, sees it come to rest healthier than ever, and he still stalks across to Helga, grabs her arm, and drags her out to the streets in front of his home.

“She was practicing sihr,” Jawhar tells anyone and everyone who will listen. “She was practicing black magic. She has been a problem from the day she was born, and it is because of this! Her soul belongs to Iblis.”

“What do you wish to do about your daughter, Jawhar?” al-Aziz asks, for he, like Helga, is well aware of the rage which flows through the former regent’s veins.

“I have no daughter,” Jawhar snarls, “and she should be punished as all practitioners of witchcraft are.”

“You would have her killed?” al-Aziz inquires, and Helga’s heart sinks. “She is still a child, Jawhar. Will you not even consider having mercy upon her?”

“There is no mercy for the wicked,” Jawhar replies, his words filled with hatred. “If you cannot stomach it, al-Aziz, I will do it myself. There is a reason al-Mu’izz appointed me general so many years ago.”

“Father, please,” Helga begs desperately, tears stinging her eyes. “Please do not do this. This is not what mother would have wanted you to do.”

“You have no father, child,” Jawhar tells her ruthlessly, “and it matters not what your mother would have wanted. She is dead, and you will join her soon enough. May the Lord of the Dawn grant us refuge from those who practice the secret arts. May Allah protect us from you, Helga Hufflepuff.”

There is a cold heat against her throat, and pain, and fear crawls through her. Helga cannot breath, cannot see, cannot feel anything anymore. The world fades, and there is no doubt, no fear, nothing.

She wakes up to see Farida’s familiar face staring down at her. Her throat hurts, and breathing is difficult, but she is alive. She is _alive_. Helga tries to speak, and cannot make her voice do as she commands. Farida notices her struggle. “Rest, Helga. You must recover. I was not sure that you would survive at all, but blood makes for powerful Sigils.”

Helga still cannot speak, but the cut on her throat has scarred over. Farida seems confident that her voice will return to her some day, but Helga cannot help doubting. Before, she was confident that for all the love her father could not give, he would never allow harm to befall her.

“You cannot remain here,” Farida tells her one day. “You must leave; find a city that has not heard of you and stay there.”

Helga does not want to leave, does not want to go out into the world on her own with only her magic for company. She cannot argue with Farida, though, so she only nods. The woman sees her reluctance and sighs. “Look, Helga. It is not safe for you here. If you stay, you will never be allowed outside. Everyone thinks you are dead, and it is best not to correct that notion. You must go elsewhere; you are only eleven, child. Do not waste your life when you have been given a second chance.”

It is dark when Helga leaves, and it is only the flames that dance in her palm that guide her, and the stars that look down on her from far away. She is tired, and lonely, and afraid. _Know who you are_ , Farida’s words echo from years ago. _I am Helga Hufflepuff_ , she thinks. _I am a witch alone in the desert with only the stars for company because of my carelessness._

She does not know where she is anymore; the dunes surrounding her are unchanging, and the sun above her is scorching. She has never known a thirst like this before, has never been so desperate for water that she imagines it, runs towards it, and loses her sense of direction irretrievably. She wishes she knew a spell for water, but magic escapes her, slips through her grasp, just as the water she imagines slips from her sight the moment she reaches it.

 _Blood makes for powerful Sigils_ , she remembers. Farida had not taught her many Runes, had certainly not taught her the one for water. But she had learned the hieroglyph for town. Towns are bound to have water, she knows, and so she pricks her finger hard enough to draw blood, and draws towns in the sand. There is another uncomfortable squeezing sensation, just as there had been the first time, and Helga opens her eyes to see a town a short distance away. She stumbles toward it, desperate for water.

A shadow falls over her, and Helga looks up to see an imposing man nearly her father’s age. “What are you doing there?” he asks her, his expression flat.

Helga licks her lips nervously, worries that her voice will not do what she desires. It cracks around the words, is low and raspy and dry, but the words come out, and she is more grateful than she has ever been in her life. “Getting a drink, sir.”

The man’s mouth twists into something resembling a smile. “That water is for the camels. Come, I will get you something cleaner.”

“Thank you,” she says. The man nods and turns away, gesturing for her to follow. She has no choice but to obey.

Men do not do things out of the kindness of their hearts, she learns. Even offering a desperate girl water does not come without a price. Buluggin ibn Ziri is not an unkind man, she decides, but he is the sort of person who never does anything without an ulterior motive.

“A good way to repay my kindness,” he tells her two years after finding her by the camel troughs, “would be to marry me. I have taken you in and cared for you, and you are young and healthy, and of marrying age, now that you have flowered. The least you can do to repay me is to give me more sons to carry on my name.”

 _It is not_ , Helga thinks, _an unreasonable request_. Her place in society practically demands that she bow to the will of men. _And really_ , she tries to convince herself, _being married will not be so bad, perhaps I will like it more than I think_. No one will care that this is not what she wants for herself, and so she agrees with Buluggin’s suggestion and prays for happiness.

Her wedding night is more unpleasant than she could have imagined. She has no interest in repeating the experience, though she knows she has little choice in the matter. 

Months go by, and Helga wonders if it would not have been better if she had died of thirst in the desert. Buluggin’s son greets her with chilly silence and stoney glares whenever she enters the room, though she has never done anything to displease al-Mansur. Buluggin grows more demanding the longer she fails to show signs of pregnancy, and Helga wonders what she has done to deserve such displeasure from everyone in her life.

 _Do not doubt your abilities. Do not fear your magic_ , she tells herself the first time she tries to use her magic after her bloody, sandy rune brought her to this unwelcoming town. She breathes in deep, closes her eyes, and opens her eyes to see a glowing badger staring at her. Helga smiles sadly as she slices her hand through the warmth of her hopes and dreams and memories. Her magic has no place here.

Buluggin grows ill, and Helga cannot muster up any feeling except relief. “If he dies,” she whispers to the moon, to Thoth, to Khonsu, “I will finally be free.”

Her husband is dead, and Helga can barely fake the tears. al-Mansur looks at her bitterly, and she knows that he knows that she is far more relieved than sad. Still, she puts on a good show for the onlookers, bends to whisper in his unhearing ear, “A feather for your heart, dear husband,” and wonders if Ma’at would deem Buluggin worthy of an afterlife.

At al-Mansur’s request, Helga leaves the town. She treks through the desert, making her way steadily northeast. She stops in a town in Israel, and manages to steal some fruit from a street vendor; it is enough to tide her over. The next time, she is not quite subtle enough in her looting, and has to make a run for the edge of the city.

For the most part, Helga stays away from populated places as much as she can help it. She only enters cities when she is in need of supplies, and she does her best to work for her food; stealing goods has not gone well for her in the past. She stumbles across several magical communities as she makes her way through Byzantine-controlled Syria, and she hears stories of a pair of wixen with lofty goals of standardized education, and a list of accomplishments trailing behind them. She listens to people talk in the taverns, and notes that none of them seem particularly disbelieving of the pair’s ability to change the world. Helga decides to make her way to the Kingdom of Alba, where the stories of the pair seem to originate.

The fastest way, she knows, would be to sail from Syria to the Kingdom of Alba, but Helga knows herself, knows her strengths and weaknesses and fears. She cannot board a ship on her own. So she struggles towards Turkey, and in Georgia comes across a group of friendly travellers on their way to Kiev. With horses, the journey is far quicker, and the group becomes a godsend when Helga finally realises that she is pregnant, not gaining weight from her limited rations. She cannot decide if she is pleased or devastated by the news.

 _Do not doubt your abilities_. Farida’s words race through her mind, and Helga sets her chin determinedly. Whatever gods exist in this world - be they Allah, or the gods of the Egyptians, or of the Greeks, or the Celts - have given her the ability to carry a child. She will accept this as a gift, and she will love the child as her mother loved her. 

Helga cannot continue on after Kiev, for she estimates that her child is due soon. “Go on without me,” she tells her companions. “I will not be able to travel for months yet, and I know that you never meant to stay long in Kiev.” She means it; she does not wish to burden them any more than she already has. She expects them to leave, wants them to. But that does not mean it doesn’t hurt when they do.

She makes a deal with a tavern owner in the city. She works for him, serving ale and mead and wine to his customers, cleaning tables and sweeping the floors. In return, he agrees to let her stay in a room, and he gives her enough food for both herself and her child.

She makes it a month before she slips up. She is talking to her baby, because she is young and lonely and more careless than she should be given her history, and so she tells her unborn child stories about the Egyptian gods, about Ra and Thoth and Osirus. She talks about Farida and Ata, about magic. She does not speak of Buluggin or Jawhar. Helga thinks about her hopes and dreams and memories, and she remembers the glowing badger, and she watches it appear as the door behind her creaks open. She slashes her hand through the animal, but she is not fast enough, and the tavern owner stares at her in wide-eyed horror.

“Witch,” he spits in disgust, and she does not say anything to refute his suspicion. What is there to say, when he has seen her disperse magic with a flick of her hand? It is irrefutable evidence, and she has handed it to him on a platter.

Helga remembers Farida’s warning, and thinks that the woman would be disappointed in her lack of caution. Only four years have passed, and she has made the same mistake again. This time, she knows, there is no one to save her.

She is marched out the door and down the street. Firelit torches flicker against stone walls. An exultant cry goes up, “Burn the witch!” and it is echoed by the voices of men and women and children. It reverberates against the cold stone walls and rises into the dim light of the setting sun. It is a warm night, and she is surrounded by fire, but as Helga leads the procession to a pit, she cannot shake the cold.

She is flanked by two men, who make quick work of tying her to a thick wooden post. The crowd falls silent for a moment, as though they expect her to beg and plead for her life; she will not give them the satisfaction. She knows how it will go: she will humiliate herself, and they will still kill her. The scar on her throat tingles, a reminder. There is no one to save her this time. She does not scream or beg or plead because there is no-one to hear, and her cries will only fall on deaf stone ears.

 _I will never meet my child_ , she realises, and the earth shakes, as though it is grieving with her. The first torch is thrown into the pit, and the fire leaps towards the wood she is bound to. And then the earth reaches out and swallows the flames. The ground shakes threateningly, dangerously, and the people surrounding her run when dirt and stones begin to dislodge themselves. The tremors continue on a few moments longer, before moving away from her. She hears the distant rumble from the direction of the city, and then there is the sound of footsteps approaching. Gentle hands unbind her, and she is pulled to her feet by one of the tallest men she has ever seen.

“You are safe, now,” he tells her, and his voice is deep, and as gentle as his fingers were. “Come with me,” he continues, “we cannot wait around for them to return, or they will kill us both.”

Helga turns her face to look at him, and notices that his eyes are soft and kind, though the rest of him is made of hard planes and sharp angles. “I know,” she tells him, and she does; she knows better than most the kinds of things people do in the name of fear. She has seen them cover their fear with excuses and cruelty and verses from their holy books. She raises her hand to her stomach, thinking about what she almost lost, and adds, “But I have too much to live for. None of us will be dying tonight.”

He follows the movement of her hand for a moment, and then meets her eyes again. “Follow me,” he orders, and she does. She has been burned many times before, but she always manages to find it within herself to trust. No doubt, no fear. There is only hope.

He leads her through the winding alleys, and rubble moves away from their footsteps, until they reach an alcove. He casts a spell, and a girl only a few years younger than herself appears, hugging him around the waist.

“I’m Bremya Gryffindor,” the girl says. “What’s your name? Are you the witch we heard about? Are you going to have a baby? How old are you?” 

Helga looks at the man in wonder, struggles to believe that she is still alive because this beautiful man decided to save a nameless, faceless witch. This is not the time for her bewilderment, though. She smiles softly at Bremya, and says, “Well met, Bremya. My name is Helga Hufflepuff.” 

Thanks are in order, but Helga is eager to get out of this city, preferably alive and whole, rather than as ashes floating in the wind. “As you may have noticed,” she says, looking at the man who saved her, “Kiev is quite unfriendly to our kind, and I will most certainly not be welcomed back. If we want to live through the night, it would be wise to leave as quickly as possible.”

“Of course,” he says. “If you’ll follow me?” Helga and Bremya both follow behind him, and together, the three of them make quick progress through the streets and into the bordering trees. 

“Thank you, sir,” Helga says after they have set up camp in a relatively safe area.

“Oh,” the man replies, looking startled. “I’m Godric Gryffindor. I suppose I never told you my name. And you’re welcome. You should really thank Bremya, though; she was the one who refused to leave the city without you.”

* * *

When she has been with Godric and Bremya for several days, she grows restless. She learned long ago that men do not do anything without expecting anything in return. And yet Godric seems content to travel with her, even after saving her life, and he has not asked for anything in return. She cannot fight the foreboding feeling that knots her stomach.

“What do you want from me?” she asks one night, after Bremya has fallen asleep. Godric sits across from her, chin in hand, while he pokes the fire with a stick.

He looks at her curiously, as though he doesn’t know what she means. “What do you mean what do I want from you?”

Helga sighs, suddenly more tired than she’s ever been. “I’m not stupid, Godric. Men never do anything without an ulterior motive. I married the last man who saved my life because he thought it was a good way to repay his kindness. What are you hoping to gain from having helped me?”

“Did you know,” Godric begins conversationally, his voice so smooth and calm despite Helga’s accusations that she cannot help but listen to him, “that when Bremya was born nearly a decade ago, her mother - my younger sister - died, making me promise to do anything in my power to ensure Bremya’s survival?”

“I was not aware of that, no,” Helga replies cautiously, when it becomes clear that he expects an answer. She is not sure what he is planning here, cannot tell what Bremya’s birth has to do with her question.

“I was not sure if Bremya had told you. The man who sired her arrived home, and he was so distraught about Glykeria’s death that he named his daughter _burden_ , and claimed that he could never love his wife’s murderer.” He clears his throat. “I tried to convince him otherwise, but he only told me that if I was so fond of little Bremya, I could take her. And so I did, because I know that if I had not, Bremya might have died at the hands of a grieving father, and I had already lost one person I loved that night. I have raised her ever since, and we have wandered together since the day I left my home.”

“I… don’t understand the point you are trying to make,” Helga speaks into the silence his words leave behind. “What does this have to do with what you want from me?” 

“Listen, Helga. Just as I do not expect Bremya to repay me for raising her, I do not expect anything from you beyond your continued survival, and the birth of your child. My saving your life was not a spontaneous act of selflessness. I did it because Bremya could not stand to leave you to burn.” Godric pauses, and the weight of it feels significant. “My saving your life does not entitle me to ask anything of you. You do not owe me anything, and even if you did, there is nothing you could give me that I would desire.”

Helga stares at him across the glowing, crackling flames. The dim light casts his face into shadow, but his eyes glitter as he holds her gaze. “I can understand why you do not expect Bremya to repay you,” she begins. “She is family. But I am not your family, and anyone in your place would demand something from me because of that.”

“It is of no consequence what others would do. There is only me, and your status as a stranger rather than a member of my family makes no difference. You are still deserving of assistance when you are in need. I will say it once again: I do not expect you to repay me when I have only helped you retain what is rightfully yours. What is more, I will not accept repayment.”

“Where I come from,” she whispers, not knowing if he can hear her, “many would argue that my life is not my own.”

“Then,” he says with conviction, “it is a good thing we are here, where things such as gender matter little in the face of magic. You are not less,” he continues. “You are a woman, but that does not mean you do not belong to yourself. Do not doubt yourself. Do not fear your abilities or your hand in life. Know who you are.”

* * *

“Godric!” Helga screams through her pain. He rushes over to her, Bremya at his side.

“What is it?” he asks frantically. Bremya stares at Helga with wide eyes. “What happened? What can I do to help?”

“I think the baby is coming,” she gasps out. She sees the fear in his eyes, remembers that his sister died giving birth. “I will be fine,” she reassures him, and it is the relief in his eyes that sends her staggering as much as the pain that crashes over her.

“I will help you,” he tells her. “Only tell me what you need, and Bremya will fetch it for you.”

She requests the necessary items in between gasps, and Bremya runs back and forth to get them. All the while, Godric remains by her side, speaking in a low, calm voice.

“Have you heard the story of Atalanta?” He waits for her to shake her head before continuing. “She was a virgin priestess to the Goddess Artemis. Atalanta was born to a father who desired a son, and so he left her on a mountaintop. She was raised by a bear and became a vicious fighter. She hunted a wild boar with a group of men, and drew first blood. She later reunited with her father, who wished for her to marry. She agreed to marry the man who could beat her in a footrace; those who lost to her would die. She won many races against many suitors, until Hippomenes used golden apples gifted to him to trick her into losing. It is said that the only reason Hippomenes won is because Atalanta loved him.

“You are Atalanta, Helga. You are the best of us. You are stronger than men give you credit for. You love with your whole heart.” His words reach her through the haze of pain, and she wraps them around herself.

Later, she holds two baby boys in her arms. “Silas,” she says, “and Symeon.”

“They are strong names,” Godric agrees. “Strong names for strong children.” He smiles down at her. “You will be a good mother.”

“And you will be a good uncle, once again.” She smiles up at him before turning her attention back to her sons. 

“We must find a town to stay in until they are old enough to survive our journey,” Godric tells her a few days later. Helga looks up at him when he scoops Symeon from her arms before turning her attention to where Bremya is holding Silas.

“You do not have to postpone your travels because of us,” Helga replies. “I will not be able to travel for several months, and I know you had hoped to visit Rome.”

Godric turns a piercing stare on her. “We were both planning to head towards the Kingdom of Alba. There is no point in my leaving you behind when we have the same destination in mind. I know you are as curious as I am about the rumors we have heard. And besides, you are family, little sister. I will not leave you behind.”

“Okay.” Helga says. “Okay.” And she cannot pretend she is not grateful. “Thank you, Godric. Thank you.” _This man_ , she tells herself, _is one of a kind_. Anyone else would have left. Anyone else would have taken her at her word, would have believed that she could handle them leaving. But Godric is a pillar of fire, steadfast, always burning, protecting her from drowning. “You are the brother,” she tells him, “that I never had, and always, _always_ wanted.”

“And you,” he responds, “are like the sister I lost years ago. I am glad to have found you.”

They do not return to Kiev, not after Helga’s near burning and Godric’s rescue. Instead, they travel to the next city over. Helga once again works in a tavern. Godric tutors the children of the city in everything except magic, saving that for Helga and Bremya and the boys, once they are old enough. They stay for two years, and when they are not counting on Bremya to watch the boys, Helga and Godric spend their spare time doting on them.

* * *

“There is a Wixen community a few hours away,” Godric tells her one day. “I would like to go there to see where the duo is located. Will you be alright on your own for a day or two?”

Helga looks up at him. “I suppose I will manage. Where is this community, though? Just in case something happens. I do not want to be unable to find you if I have to leave the city for some reason.”

“It is half a day’s ride north. Hopefully nothing will happen while I am gone. I plan to leave this afternoon, and I will return the day after tomorrow.”

Godric does not return the day he predicted. Helga cannot help the sick feeling that coils in her stomach, because she has never known Godric to break his word. Two days after his failed return, and Helga cannot wait anymore, so she packs up their things, and heads north on horseback, Silas’ arms wrapped around her waist, and Symeon’s around Bremya’s, who follows close behind.

Contrary to her expectations, the Wixen community in Chernobyl is easy to find, though she supposes that her magic has something to do with it. The Muggle-Repelling Charms that separate it from the rest of the world do nothing to disguise the gravity-defying buildings and swirling colors from her sight.

Godric is nowhere to be found; he is in none of the pubs or taverns, is not in the Apothecary or anywhere near any of the other shops that line the streets. Helga begins to ask around, Silas and Symeon on her hips and Bremya trailing along behind her, her face wrinkled with worry. 

No one is able to give her any information, and only when she points to Bremya’s brilliant hair and eyes that match Godric’s while holding her hand high above her head to indicate his height does one of the street vendors point over to the Hunter’s Moon. Helga cannot help but wrinkle her nose at the dingy gray building; she can hear commotion from inside the building, and the last thing she wants to do is enter it.

“Bremya,” she says to Godric’s niece, drawing her attention away from the delicate sculptures that flow like water, “I need you to watch Silas and Symeon for me while I look for Godric. Can I count on you to keep the three of you out of harm’s way?”

Bremya looks at her with wide eyes. “Yes, Helga.” She holds her arms out for the boys, who totter over to her and grab her hands. “Come along,” she tells the boys, and, giving Helga a final worried look, leads them away to disappear around a corner.

Helga watches them leave, before she turns away, facing the Hunter’s Moon once more. A shiver crawls up her spine as she approaches the rickety old building, and her vision blurs briefly. It looks rather like one of the whore houses she had seen back in Kiev, and the sounds coming from inside confirm her suspicions. She had avoided it in the first place because of its appearance because she hadn’t thought Godric would ever enter such an establishment, but now she is not so sure. She has never seen him with any women in the two years since they met, nor has she heard him mention any such dalliances, though she supposes that is not so unusual.

 _Perhaps,_ she thinks, _Godric came here for some relief, and simply lost track of time._ But that is not like him. Godric is always so aware of himself, and he would never risk worrying either Helga or Bremya for such a thing when there are so many women back home who would lie with him for no money at all.

Her lip curls at the stench that wafts out as she pushes the heavy wooden door open; it smells of sweat and something she has always associated with Buluggin from the nights he would join her in her bed. Helga shudders at the memory.

The interior of the building is dimly lit, and there is a kind of dichotomy that hits Helga over the head when she first looks around. 

Her first impression of the place is that it is filled with men and women; the men are being doted upon, are being served food and drinks as they lie draped across plush chairs or stand against the walls or lean up against heavily laden tables. The women are serving the men, are bringing them food and alcohol, and are inviting the men to their bodies. Some of the women are scantily clothed, while others are completely bared to the ravenous gazes and grasping hands of the men who, Helga notices, are in wild disarray, some of them fully clothed and others as naked as some of the women. The women who are not bringing refreshments to the men are held up against the walls or sprawled over the floors underneath men far larger than them. Others sit on the laps or faces of their clients, and still more are on their hands and knees in front of the men. The sight of it all turns Helga’s stomach.

But there is something - reality shifts and warps, like she is seeing this scene in the mirror of a lake that has just been disturbed, and when it stills again, the situation is completely different. Instead of the lewdness of before, Helga is horrified to see familiar men - and they are the same men from the illusion, she realises - chained to every available surface, looking sick and weak and drained. As she watches, a woman in elegant white robes makes her way around the room, using magic to do something to the men. Helga can see sparkling clouds rising toward the woman as she makes her rounds, and it occurs to her that the woman is draining these men of their energy.

The woman approaches her, and Helga cannot keep her body from stiffening. Just as the woman pauses in front of her, the world ripples again. When it clears, everything is the same, and the woman brushes past her, her robes swirling as she leaves the room.

Helga releases the breath that had caught in her throat as the woman had neared, and startles when a soft voice from behind her says, “Follow me.”

She turns abruptly to see a different girl walking away from her. She wears the same white robes as the woman who had left the room, but this girl has long gold hair, not unlike Helga’s own. Helga hurries to catch up to her, following as the girl leads her down a winding passage longer than the outside of the building and into a cold room. The girl turns, and Helga is struck by the delicate features set into an expressionless mask.

“Who are you?” Helga asks.

“I am Lavinia of the Hunters of Agrotora.”

 _I am not a virgin,_ is the first thing Helga thinks. She cannot think why someone from a branch of the Hunters of Diana has taken interest in her. “Why have you brought me here?”

“I saw you in the village, before you came here and I trapped you in the Illusion of the brothel. You were asking around about a big man with red hair. I know where he is.”

Helga looks at her. “Can you tell me?” She doesn’t much care that her desperation leaks into her voice at the request.

Lavinia looks uncertain for the first time, her face pinches around the eyes and lips. “I shouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“I helped capture him with my Illusions. My coven wishes to make an example of him; when he first saw the Hunter’s Moon, he bypassed it completely, seeming disgusted. The High Priestess said that no man is truly so good as all that; all men desire the company of a woman for their own pleasure. Amabel used her Telepathy to determine the best way to lure him in, and I used my Illusions to do so.” She looks at Helga curiously. “You were part of the Illusion that brought him to us. He seemed distressed to see you in danger.”

“We have been together for more than two years,” Helga tells her angrily. “Of course he would be terrified to see me in danger. You had no right to use me against him in such a way.”

Lavinia looks startled by her anger. “But he is a man,” she says, as though this excuses her actions. “Men care only for themselves; they worry not for a woman’s needs or desires.”

“Not Godric,” Helga says fiercely. “He saved my life and has asked for nothing in return. I am not saying that some men are not like that, only that men like Godric are undeserving of such hatred.”

“But High Priestess Cosima has always told me that men are terrible and selfish, and that they use others for their own ends.”

“Some of them do,” Helga agrees. “But Godric is not like that, and your High Priestess is stealing the energy from those men up there; she is using them for her own ends. You cannot tell me that she is any better than the men she so despises when I have seen with my own eyes what she considers appropriate.”

Lavinia looks shocked. “High Priestess Cosima is not using those men. She is protecting us from them!”

“How did they come to be here?” Helga asks her.

“Amabel and I used our magic to lure them here; High Priestess Cosima told us of their crimes, and she said that it is our duty as the Hunters of Agrotora to enact their punishment.”

“Did you see them doing whatever it is your High Priestess claims they have done?”

“No, but she does not lie to us. Whatever she says they have done is the truth.”

“And what did she tell you Godric did? What has she convinced you he’s done that is so bad that he must become your unwilling prisoner?”

Lavinia swallows. “The High Priestess told us that she saw your Godric taking advantage of a woman on the streets.”

“Godric would never do such a thing. Like I told you earlier, Godric saved me without requiring anything in return, and he has helped me raise my children, and that is in addition to taking in his sister’s daughter when she was just a babe because her father did not want her. Your High Priestess lied to you, and now you will help me reverse her crimes.”

Lavinia looks away from Helga’s piercing gaze. “You are not the only one who has been saved by the person you insist has done no wrong. High Priestess Cosima saved me, years ago, from a man nearly as big as Godric when he wished to have his way with me, and she took me in and trained me and cared for me. I believe you that your friend would never do the same to a woman without her consent, and so I will tell you where he is being kept. But as I said, you are not the only one who owes someone something, and so I cannot help you any more than that.”

“Where is he?” Helga asks, hoping that this time she will receive an answer.

“Down. Go straight, then take a left and a right, then follow the staircase. He should be in the cells where the rest of the men are kept. He may not recognize you at first; the High Priestess likes to put her Potions into the food and drink of our prisoners.” She grimaces at her words, as though she has just realised what she said. “Go quickly,” Lavinia urges. “I cannot help you anymore.”

“Thank you,” Helga whispers. She leaves the room, and uses the directions Lavinia had given her to reach the stairs. They are a long way down, winding around in dizzying circles and looping over themselves. It feels like it has taken far too long to reach the bottom when she finally reaches the dirt-packed hallway. Torches line the walls in uneven increments, often fading into blackness before the next comes into view. The hallway widens into a dark room, the temperature drops dramatically, and Helga shivers.

There is no light, and so Helga summons her glowing badger once again, allowing it to warm her as it guides her past the dozens of cells that line the walls. Helga looks into each one, praying that it will be the cell Godric is housed in; each cell is filled with delirious, stinking men, and she turns away from each one because Godric is not there.

Finally, at the back of the room, Helga comes to a cell that is less full than the previous ones. In it, Godric is chained to the far wall, the metal chafing at his wrists, his eyes rolled back into his head, his cheekbones and throat bruised, and his torso on display and boasting broken ribs. Helga claps a hand to her mouth; she has never seen Godric like this, and it is difficult to finally realise that he is as vulnerable as she is.

“Godric?” she whispers futilely. “Can you hear me?”

She receives no answer. Godric does not shift from where he is propped gracelessly against the cold wall, does not even release a groan. He is utterly silent in a way that he never is, even asleep, and Helga cannot help the worry that floods her chest and fills her throat.

Helga remembers one of the Sigils Farida had taught her so many years ago, and she traces it into the dust that rests atop the padlock to Godric’s cell. The lock clicks, and the door swings open smoothly when she pushes against it.

Godric is still dead to the world when Helga kneels beside him. He doesn’t react to her shaking his body, and fails to twitch when she pats his face gently, avoiding the bruises that color it. Helga sighs, and tries waking him with a spell; that, too, fails, and so she shifts her attention from rousing him to healing his injuries. Within moments, the bruises on his face and neck are fading, and the swelling of his ribs goes down. She can do nothing for the breaks at the moment, and settles for tearing long pieces of fabric from the hem of her skirt to bind them.

“Come on, Godric,” she whispers desperately. “Wake up, wake _up._ ” He does not, and Helga settles for using her magic to levitate him in front of her. She makes her way out of the dungeon, feeling slightly guilty as she passes the cells filled with men. They are not her responsibility, and she does not have the power or the time required to save them all.

The way out seems to take longer than the way in, and by the time Helga passes the room Lavinia had led her to and reaches the main room, she is fatigued from using her magic to support Godric’s dead weight for so long. She slowly lowers him to the floor, looking around herself.

With the Illusion still shattered, Helga is able to truly appreciate the horror of the situation. She cannot understand how Lavinia is convinced that she and her coven are in the right when these chained men are emaciated and dying. She thanks the gods that Godric was not trapped here, where the High Priestess could feed off of his life force and bring him ever closer to death. Sometimes, the full extent of Correllian magic astounds her, because it is so often a surprise when people use the trickier aspects of it as the High Priestess does.

Helga makes to lift Godric up again, but he groans, struggling against the hold of her magic, and she has to release him before he injures himself more. “Godric?” she asks hopefully, and is beyond relieved when he grunts in response. “Can you stand?” she wonders aloud, uncertain if his stubbornness will be enough to support him. She prays that it will be; she doubts she can support him with her magic for much longer.

Godric struggles slowly to his feet, and Helga watches sympathetically as he tries valiantly to ignore the pain wracking his body. His posture is stooped, and he staggers when he tries to take a step. “Yes,” he grits out, and she watches his posture straighten, watches him bite back the agony for her sake. She moves into his side, wrapping his arm around her shoulder and her arm around his waist, and they make their way to the door with stumbling footfalls.

Helga braces her palm against the heavy wood once more and pushes it open just enough for them to slip through, side by side.

The daylight is a startling contrast to the poorly-lit belly of the Hunter’s Moon, and Helga blinks rapidly in an effort to adjust. She guides Godric to the stand with the liquid-glass statues, hoping that Bremya will see them and join them so they can leave Chernobyl and get Godric to a safe place to rest. A flash of white in the glass catches her attention, and Helga struggles to turn around in Godric’s hold.

Behind them, there are twelve women in white robes standing in a crescent. Beyond them, a sobbing girl with golden hair and dressed in white robes is being led toward a man almost rivalling Godric in size, his face far crueller than Godric’s could ever be. The girl turns around, attempting to run, and Helga catches a glimpse of her face. It is Lavinia.

One of the women in the crescent swipes her hand through the air, and Lavinia trips over nothing, falling to the ground and dirtying her robes. “Traitors shall never rejoin the Hunt,” the woman says, loud enough for Helga to hear, and her heart pounds. She knows very little about these Hunters, only that they are a branch of the Hunters of Diana and that they apparently hate men. The only other thing she does know is something she had been told by one of her companions on the way to Kiev, and it is that Hunters only accept virgin females into their ranks, and that they have ways of ensuring that traitors are forever unable to rejoin any of their branches. She hopes that what she thinks is about to happen to Lavinia is not what will actually happen, but the presence of the man nearby only lends credence to her theory.

Helga is momentarily horrified, until Godric nudges her urgently. She looks at him, and he looks more terrified than she has ever seen him. She follows his gaze, and what she sees turns her stomach. It is not an Illusion, she knows, for there had been no rippling of reality, no blurring of her vision like the other times she had experienced Lavinia’s Illusions. Her eyes catch on the undoubtedly real sight of Bremya and Symeon being escorted by girls in light gray robes to the women in white, who have gathered themselves into a circle.

Helga lunges forward, but the same woman who had stopped Lavinia freezes Helga in midair. She is unable to move, and can do nothing but watch as the Correllian witch approaches Symeon, drawing a wickedly sharp knife from the folds of her robes. 

Bremya steps between them, and is abruptly tossed to the side like a ragdoll by the same witch who has stolen Helga’s autonomy from her; she lands hard against the ground, skidding to the side painfully, and hitting her head against the wooden stand supporting the glass creations. Helga watches as the figurines wobble at the force of Bremya’s collision and fall toward her, shattering against her face and shoulders and the ground around her. Bremya doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t move, and it is this that finally gives Godric the strength to move on his own, rushing toward his niece’s crumpled body.

The High Priestess continues her advance, and still Helga can only watch as she brandishes the knife in front of her son’s face. She can do nothing as the sharp blade is used to caress Symeon’s face. She can’t even scream as it approaches his eyes and goes _in_. Symeon screams for the both of them, loud and clear and full of unbearable, tortured suffering, his voice leaping out and taking on a physical form and slashing at the High Priestess, leaving bloody lacerations like delicate lacework across her neck.

She smiles, a bloody, cruel thing, laughs at Symeon’s magic, and Helga erupts. She pushes her emotion-laced magic at Cosima and watches as the cuts seal themselves and she struggles to draw breath within a moment. Cosima’s skin turns waxy and visible lumps begin to appear beneath her skin; the hollows beneath her cheekbones become more prominent and her eyes more sunken. Helga smiles in vicious satisfaction as the High Priestess begins to waste away before her eyes, becoming so thin and tired and weak in musculature that she cannot even hold up her own weight. She tumbles to the ground, and with just one more push of Helga’s magic, she does not rise again.

Her vision blurs, and nothing changes. Helga looks over to Lavinia’s still form where she is still prostrated across the stones, and the girl twitches her fingers toward the remaining Hunters of Agrotora. Helga watches them turn on each other, casting spells toward their allies. One by one, they join the High Priestess on the ground.

Helga, now free to move as she pleases, rushes to Symeon’s side. She can do nothing for his eyes, is drained from the amount of magic she has used; she cradles Symeon’s face in her hands, kisses his forehead to give him the only thing she can. She sees the moment Symeon’s pain fades, his features clearing and his pained cries petering out. As her vision fades, she sees Silas’ dark head rushing towards them.

“I will be your eyes, brother,” she hears one child say to another.

* * *

“I did not doubt my magic,” she tells Farida in what she thinks is a dream, “nor did I fear my abilities.”

“And look at all you have accomplished,” Farida replies, looking down at the fabric she is weaving.

“I did not know it was possible to Heal someone to death,” Helga says. “But that is what I did, when I turned to my emotions for guidance.”

“Indeed you did, child. This is what I meant, all those years ago. I told you not to doubt or fear yourself, for you are the essence of your magic and your abilities. Those emotions were restricting you; so long as you fail to be at peace with who you are, you will never reach your full potential. You will never learn the true extent of your power when you cannot accept yourself.” Farida stands, and motions for Helga to do the same. She wraps the fabric around Helga’s neck before cutting her own finger and tracing a Rune onto the linen.

Helga looks down at the place where Farida’s hand holds the ends of the cloth together, and her eyes are drawn to the Rune. _Wake_ , it commands her, and she does, with a question ringing in her ears.

_Who are you?_

* * *

Helga Hufflepuff wakes up with her back warm, staring into the unseeing gray eyes of her youngest son. “How are you feeling, darling?”

“Can’t see,” he tells her sleepily.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers into Symeon’s hair.

“’Snot your fault,” he reassures her.

“But I can’t fix it.”

“Si’s gonna see for me.”

“Yeah?” she breathes.

Symeon hums an affirmative into her clavicle and snuggles deeper into her warmth. “Love you, Mummy.”

“I love you too,” she whispers.

* * *

“Back when I first set out with Bremya,” Godric tells her, the edges of his face foggy and far softer than they are in real life, “we ran into a group of brigands. She was quite young, still, and they scared her. She started crying, and there were enough of them that they captured us. They took us back to their camp, and they left me chained up outside. It was freezing out, and they had taken my furs, as well as Bremya, into the tents. 

“I don’t know what they planned to do with her, but after capturing me, they left me alone and unguarded outside the tent. I managed to get free. I made to leave without her, because I thought that she was the reason we had been captured in the first place.” He looks ashamed, and his voice is regretful. “I’ll admit that throughout the capture and my brief imprisonment, I rather thought that Andronicus had named her accurately. And then I heard her crying within the tent.

“As I said, I don’t know what they planned to do with her, but hearing her cry made me furious. I rushed into the tent, and seeing her tears was worse than hearing them. I lost control of my magic, and the Earth crawled up the bodies of the men who had captured us, and it suffocated them, and then the Earth opened up and swallowed them whole. I drowned those men on dry land, no water required.” He looks at her significantly.

“I do not regret it. But I understand how you feel. It is amazing what our magic can do for the ones we love. It is amazing what we can do to protect our chosen burdens.”

“Children are not burdens,” Helga tells him, the first thing she has said since he began talking.

“They are burdens,” Godric disagrees. “That is why many children are abandoned. One must know themselves absolutely, without doubt, to raise a child; you are choosing to burden yourself with another fragile life.” He smiles softly. “It is amazing, though, what our burdens can become, is it not? It is amazing to see what may come from fragility.”

Helga remembers the glass wares from the street vendor, remembers how they shattered across Bremya’s lovely face. She remembers how, when they were whole and glistening and beautiful, they had seemed as flowing as water.

“Yes,” she agrees. “It is.”

* * *

“This is as far as I will go,” Lavinia tells them a few years later, when they have finally reached the lustrous forests of Alba. “I thank you all for the second chance you have given me when I was denied it by those I considered to be family. Now it is my turn to offer the same opportunity to my fellow Wixen. May we meet again someday in the future.”

“May we meet again,” Bremya echoes, offering her scarred cheek to Lavinia for a kiss. A brilliant smile crosses her face, causing the scars to ripple in the sunlight, a direct contrast to the unmarred, shadowed side. “We will miss your company, Lavinia, and your Illusions less so.” She steps back to allow Silas to wrap his arms around Lavinia’s waist in an enthusiastic embrace.

“I admire your goal,” he tells her. “May the gods grant you endless opportunities to make good on your aspirations. A village full of second chances!” He steps back, and his eyes go cloudy as he lends his sight to his brother.

“Remember,” Symeon tells her, wise beyond his years, “that some crimes are unforgivable, and not everyone is deserving of a second chance. It is up to you to make that distinction.” He does not hug her, only stares at her with a steady gaze that seems to take in everything at once. “Illusions,” he says, “are not only meant to show others what you wish them to see. Some Illusions are truth, and some are lies, but you will always see what you need most.”

Lavinia nods shakily, and Symeon returns his borrowed eyes.

“I wish you all the best,” Helga tells her, and finds that she finally means it.

Godric says nothing, only stares straight ahead. He offers a faint smile, and Helga knows that Lavinia has gotten all she will ever get from him. Godric has come a long way in forgiving Lavinia for her part in his capture, but his stubbornness will never allow him to completely absolve her. 

They stand shoulder to shoulder as they watch Lavinia’s silhouette move toward the horizon. She doesn’t look back.

* * *

As they grow closer to the duo, the rumors increase. Helga hears of basilisk bites, of snake language, of shifting into animal forms during battle. Godric visits taverns and reports whispers of the defeat of the Necromantic Reaper Guild and its undead armies. With all the tales of their accomplishments, though, there is little information as to their names. Some people say the Wixen are from Greece, and others claim that they can only be native to Alba or Brittania. Fewer than those agreeing on origin are those who agree on gender; there are arguments for two men, or two women, or one each, and then there are the few Wixen who counter that these warriors are animals turned human and therefore not deserving of any gender at all.

Helga and Godric are amongst the first to learn any truths at all about the duo.

Nearly a month after Lavinia departs from their company, Helga and Godric have set up camp near a river; Bremya has been charged with washing their soiled clothing further downstream, and Silas and Symeon have been sent to pick some of the ripened berries that grow along the bend of the river part of the way between where Bremya is and where they are. Helga keeps watch while Godric bathes in the cool water, washing the grime from their journey from his body; he had done the same for her only moments before.

It is as Godric makes his way toward the shore that she hears it: behind them, a bellowing roar breaks through the silence that had surrounded them. Helga whirls around. “What was that?” she demands.

Godric looks at her with consternation. “I couldn’t say. It’s like nothing I’ve heard before. It sounds big though.” He draws his sword from the pile of clothes on the ground.

“Godric,” Helga says warningly, “you are not going to find out what that is. Think of Bremya.”

“Sure I am. I’m keeping whatever it is away from her.”

“Godric no.” she pleads, and scowls when he only grins at her.

“You can come with me,” he coaxes. “Make sure I’m safe and come back in one piece.”

“No.” Helga tells him flatly. “Absolutely not. Don’t be a reckless idiot.”

“I’ll be safe,” he reassures her, before he turns and runs toward the commotion, the sword in his hand glinting in the moonlight.

“He’s going to impale himself with that sword,” she says to the empty space around her. “Godric!” she shouts after him, “you’ve not got any clothing on!” Godric ignores her, continuing forward, and Helga sighs in exasperation before following him. “If we die, I’m going to _kill_ you!” she calls, and Godric laughs in exhilaration.

He is still laughing and out of breath when they finally reach the source of the sound. Helga stares wide eyed at the massive beast. It is a vivid green with four legs, generous wings, spiked horns atop its head, and a whip-like tail. As Helga watches, the beast roars its bellowing battle-cry, and all at once, the earth beneath her feet begins to tremble. “Are you doing this?” she shouts at Godric.

“No!” he replies, looking worried. “I think the creature is.”

“Oh, wonderful! Now we have an animal with the same affinity for magic as you do!” The green monstrosity opens its mouth, and a plume of hot green fire leaps forth. “And it breathes fire!”

“Clearly,” Godric shouts, “this was not the best idea I’ve ever had.”

“No,” Helga replies sarcastically, “really? And here I was thinking that this is the least reckless thing you’ve ever done.”

“I’m sorry, okay? What should we do to fight it?”

“ _I_ don’t know! Try countering its Earth magic. I’ll try to Heal it to death.”

Godric has more success than she does; Helga can find nothing within the beast to coax into healing, let alone into healing to such an extent that it kills itself. She settles for sending spells at the creature, and learns that Cutting Charms only work if aimed at the eyes, Stunning Charms do exactly nothing, and Exploding Charms only irritate the animal. Even less effective are spells that cause trees and plants to wrap around the limbs of the beast; it simply bends the flora to its will. After a while, Helga retreats behind a large outcropping of rock to regain her breath. She keeps an eye on Godric while she does so, and watches as he bends the Earth to his will. The ground swallows the green creature whole, but it climbs out within seconds; the earth shakes violently enough to knock it off its feet, but it flies into the air to recuperate. Tendrils of dirt snake up its limbs like chains, strengthened by thick trees, but they are shaken off, barely slowing the monster down. Helga can see Godric tiring quickly; it is often more difficult to fight something that works within your own domain than to fight something unfamiliar with your abilities.

Helga looks at the rock she is hiding behind, and an idea strikes her. She uses a Levitating Charm to lift the mass of stone into the air, and Banishes it toward their enemy. It hits, stunning the creature for a moment, and it is just long enough for Godric to gain an advantage; he takes control of the Earth again, and it crawls into the crevasses of the animal’s body. As Helga watches, a golden eagle circles overhead, and a man appears from nowhere, his black hair glistening in the cold moonlight as he turns Godric’s element into water and sends it rushing further into the belly of the beast.

Before her eyes, the brilliant green lustre fades, leaving a sickly, rotten colour in its wake. The steam that had been curling from the nostrils peters out, and the beast stops breathing.

Godric falls to the ground, exhausted, and Helga rushes to his side, draping her cloak over his shoulders. “Never do something like that again,” she tells him fiercely. “If you hear a sound like that, you run in the opposite direction, do you understand?”

Godric waves weakly at her. “’Sfine,” he slurs. “Nobody died.” Helga glares at him, and it must be sufficiently terrifying, because Godric agrees almost immediately after he sees her expression. “Run the other direction,” he repeats. “Got it.”

A shadow falls over Godric’s prone body. “Well done,” says a man, and Helga turns to find the man who had turned the earth into water and killed the beast. She takes a moment to appreciate how attractive he is, with his gleaming black curls and sharp green eyes and tanned skin. “Was that your first time fighting a Dragon?”

“Yes,” Helga tells him, not offering anything more.

“Certainly not the way I’d have gone about it, but your method seemed to work well enough. I’d recommend not relying so much on Gaia against Welsh Greens, though. They have an affinity for the earth so long as there are ley lines nearby, as you may have noticed. Unfortunately for you two, this place is right on top of a rather powerful ley line, and so the Dragon wasn’t suffering many disadvantages.”

“Hopefully we’ll never be fighting another Dragon again,” Helga mutters resentfully.

“Hey now,” the man says, “you’re in Alba now. There are Dragons in abundance, here, and some far worse than Welsh Greens. You’re really lucky you ran into this one and not an Antipodean Opaleye or a Hebridean Black. Even Rowena has trouble with those ones, the Hebridean especially, what with their shared affinity for light.” He gestures toward the eagle, who has until now been circling above them. It lands, and a woman stands in its place.

“Rowena Ravenclaw,” she offers. “Cosmic practitioner.”

“Helga Hufflepuff,” Helga returns, admiring the woman’s silky chestnut tresses and her piercing amber eyes. “That’s Godric,” she adds, pointing to where her companion is lying prone, face up and completely bare to the eyes of the newcomers. “Gryffindor,” she adds, “and I promise he doesn’t normally rush into battle with no clothes on.”

Rowena stifles a laugh, her eyes glittering. “We all have our moments,” she says confidingly. “Why, when Sal - that’s Salazar Slytherin - and I were first acquiring our Animagus forms, we - more Sal than me - would shift in the middle of battle, and our clothing wouldn't shift with us. I think _that_ might have more to do with our success in the early days than anything else did.”

Salazar scowls at Rowena. “We’ve just met them, you don’t need to go around sharing all our embarrassing stories just yet.”

Rowena tilts her head. “I think we’ll be seeing a great deal of Helga and Godric in the future, Sal. They’ll make great additions to the school, don’t you think?”

“So you’re the ones we’ve been hearing about?” Godric breaks in. “The ones wanting to standardize a magical education for all Wixen?”

“Yes,” Rowena says smugly. “I take it you’ve heard of us?”

“Of course,” Godric tells her boldly. “We’ve been travelling together for several years, making our way toward Alba because we heard rumors of you and what you wanted to do.”

“How lovely,” Rowena says. “It’s good to hear that there are others interested in the same things as Sal and I. Speaking of which, Salazar,” she says, and the man looks at her curiously, “I think this spot right here will be a perfect place for our school.”

“Right here?” Salazar asks dubiously. “Where there’s a Dragon.”

“Precisely,” Rowena says, with the air of someone who expects to be obeyed. “You’re the Alchemist here; use that permanent Transfiguration you’ve got a knack for to turn this magic-filled Dragon’s body into a school for our future students.”

Salazar rolls his eyes at her, but does as she says. Before Helga’s eyes, the body of the Welsh Green morphs and shifts, growing in size and changing shape. From around them, bits and pieces of stone and plants fly through the air toward the school Salazar is creating. A gray stone mass stretches out before them, towers and turrets taking shape as Salazar draws pure magic out of the ley lines underneath them and gives it physical form. The final product is the shell of an intricate castle, the outline of it standing strong. “We’ll have to finish building it with actual stones,” Salazar tells them, “but this will be our school, a place where Wixen may come to learn magic in safety.”

“Never tickle a sleeping Dragon,” Rowena mutters, barely loud enough for Helga to hear. “It might kill you, or give you magic, or help you build a school; you never know what you might get, but rest assured that the animal you’re poking at is the king of magic.”

“Well then,” Helga says, unsure what Rowena’s rambling might mean, “let’s get started. Godric and I’ve already got prospective students.”

Rowena smiles. “That’s good to hear. Sometimes I worry that we won’t be able to pull this off. It’s so big, you know? You only ever hear of kings changing the world like this.”

“Don’t doubt what we can do,” Helga tells her. “Don’t be afraid of the work it’ll take; only know that we’ll create this place for students to learn magic a thousand years into the future.”

“No doubt,” Rowena agrees, and they join Godric and Sal in creating their castle.

**Author's Note:**

> There are mentions of what could be considered child neglect, as well as attempted murder, by Helga's father; there is technically underage by our standards, but historically it's not underage. There are a couple of - what I think are - vague references to rape. There is at one point the mutilation of children and the intentional blinding of a child, not done by either Helga or Godric. At one point, Helga uses her Healing magic to basically initiate and accelerate the spread of cancer, and this kills the person she uses it against.
> 
> If any of these things will bother you, I suggest you either don't read this, or read with care.
> 
> Also for anyone wondering, Helga is born in Cairo, and ends up in Ifriqiya before she heads to Kiev.


End file.
